Chapter 105: When the Light Spoke L••••
The last warmth of autumn clung to the days like a reluctant goodbye. Mornings were crisp, but the afternoons still spilled golden across the lawns. On days like these, Eva insisted the light itself spoke L•••• — long vowels slipping through leaves, warm syllables falling on her shoulders.
Seraphina, ever patient, humored her.
"Then what does it say?" she asked once, as they walked together beneath the arbor where the roses still dared to bloom.
Eva squinted up, thoughtful. "It says… 'Amor manet.' Love remains."
She looked so certain — barefoot, in a navy wool dress too elegant for a child's errands, curls bouncing with each step — that Seraphina didn't argue. She only smiled and offered her hand.
They walked the garden path together, hand in hand.
Inside, the house smelled of polished wood and cinnamon. Mère had baked spiced bread that morning, and the remnants of the scent clung to the air like a lullaby. Eva sat cross-legged on the living room floor with her violin propped beside her, humming tunelessly as she colored in a page of her L•••• workbook with highlighters that weren't hers.
"You've underlined every word in pink," Seraphina observed from her place on the couch.
Eva didn't look up. "It's the color of love."
"Isn't red the color of love?"
"No," Eva said firmly. "Red is for bleeding. Pink is for thinking about love without crying yet."
Seraphina laughed. "You're a little strange, you know that?"
Eva finally glanced up, smiling. "You love me, though."
"Always."
That was enough for her.
That afternoon, Eva stood in the music room again, bow in hand. She wore a navy ribbon tied around her wrist — Seraphina's old ribbon, rescued from the bottom of a drawer and claimed like treasure. She said it helped her play better.
She launched into a new piece she'd composed that week. It had no title yet. It was slow and wandering, as if it couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a lullaby or a farewell. Seraphina sat nearby, chin resting on her hand, watching.
When Eva finished, she lowered the violin, flushed with pride. "I want you to name it."
Seraphina thought for a moment. "Desiderium."
"What does it mean?"
"Longing."
Eva's eyes glowed. "Perfect."
Then, after a pause: "Is that what you feel when I'm not here?"
Seraphina laughed and pulled her into a hug. "Exactly."
They spent part of the evening in the Langford library, where Eva liked to sit on the windowsill with her knees tucked up and her notebook open in her lap. The window looked out over the west lawn, where the shadows were beginning to stretch long and blue.
"I wrote another poem," she said.
"L••••?" Seraphina asked, already reaching out her hand.
Eva shook her head. "G••••. But I put little hearts in the margins so it counts as romantic."
Seraphina unfolded the paper, which had been meticulously creased and then sealed with a tiny rose sticker.
She read aloud:
Ἡ ψυχή μου σε ψάλλει,
ἐν ἀναστροφῇ τοῦ φωτός,
ἄνευ σοῦ, φωνὴ μου σιγᾷ —
ἀλλ' ἐν σοὶ, ἀνατέλλει ὁ κόσμος.
"My soul sings you,
in the turning of the light,
without you, my voice is mute —
but in you, the world rises."
Seraphina didn't speak right away. Then, softly, "Eva, this is stunning."
Eva tilted her head. "Did you like the part about the world rising?"
"I liked all of it."
Eva climbed into her lap without invitation, laying her cheek against Seraphina's collarbone. "Then I'll write more tomorrow."
"You don't have to impress me, you know," Seraphina whispered.
"I don't. I just want you to never leave."
*****
At dinner that night, Eva sat beside Seraphina instead of across from her, rearranging the seating without consulting anyone. Maman arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I like sitting here better," Eva explained. "It's closer to Ina. I want to be able to touch her."
"You could just ask her to hold your hand," Vivienne offered dryly from across the table.
"I do. But sometimes I need both hands and one foot."
Seraphina covered her face, laughing helplessly.
"You see what I live with?" she said to Maman, who only smiled and passed the bread.
Later that night, when the fire was low and the world outside quieted to a hush, Eva nestled against Seraphina on the couch with a book of illustrated myths open between them. They weren't really reading. Eva kept pointing out characters and renaming them.
"That one's you. Look at her. Beautiful and serious."
"Who's that?" Seraphina asked, pointing to the winged boy with a lyre.
"Me, obviously," Eva replied, completely serious. "Singing about you and causing trouble."
Seraphina smiled faintly. "That's fairly accurate."
Eva looked up, sleepy but sincere. "You know you're my favorite story, right?"
"I know, darling."
She kissed the top of Eva's head.
"Am I yours?" Eva asked, small and shy.
"You're my favorite everything."
Eva closed her eyes and held on tighter, as if she could press her heart against Seraphina's just by lying still enough.
And in that quiet, firelit moment, they both understood something deeper than words or music or poetry:
Some bonds weren't learned. They were remembered. Ancient. Absolute.